The Winter Wolf

By S. M. Carrière

War has come.

The desert has invaded.

Under the guidance of Seraphimé, Marshal of the Tundra, and her devoted consort, Bran, the formerly peaceful nations of the tundra, join with their new southern allies to fight back the invading Ottalan army.

But greater plays are in motion.

The ancient spirits of the Sierran and Greyl nations are stirring, returning to the mortal realm to battle against the ruthless god of the desert. Gods and ancestors alike stride from the shadow realms to join the fight against the mighty Desert Eagle. Ploys are made, strategies change and alliances shift as the armies clash in savage combat.

And within Seraphimé herself, a great, primal power begins to awaken.

The Winter Wolf is the epic final volume of The Seraphimé Saga

• Language: English
• Publisher: S. M. Carrière
• Release date: Oct 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9780986697692

S. M. Carrière

Born in 1983 in Quito, Ecuador, S.M. Carrière has lived in five countries around the world including Ecuador, Gabon and The Philippines. The family moved to Australia from The Philippines shortly after the commencement of hostilities there in 1989.After graduating High School, S.M. Carrière worked full time as an Office Junior at a law firm in Brisbane, Queensland before moving to Canada in 2001. In 2002 she began her academic career beginning in Criminology, but switching to Directed Interdisciplinary Studies (focusing on Perhistoric Anthropology and Archaeology) after her first year. She graduated with a B.A. Hon from Carleton University in 2007 with honours.It wasn't until well after graduation that writing found her. She hasn't looked back since.S.M. Carrière now resides in Canada with her two cats and a growing collection of books.

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Prologue

The gods of the desert were cruel and hard, like the land itself. They required what life required – constant battle. Susa Ottal despised them. The battles they demanded, the blood they required, had taken away his family. His father was killed in battle, defending the well that was the village’s only source of water. His mother was sacrificed upon the altar of the gods. A child of only ten-years-old, he became a slave, carrying his dying infant sister on the long march back to the invaders’ homeland.

The slavers were also men of the desert. Men with brown skin and dark eyes like his. They could have been kin. Even their clothing was the same. All Susa could think about was their similarities during the long, arduous march across the desert. They were his people, and yet they insisted on battling their brothers and sisters, raping and enslaving them. All for what? Because the gods decreed that only the strongest could survive? Because the gods required blood on their altars?

Susa kept his eyes down during the hot, dusty march, staring at the orange sand to hide the hate in his eyes. When he buried his sister in a shallow grave on the eighth morning, he took up a sharp stone and cut his forearm.

I promise you this, Denna, he whispered as the blood soaked into the sand at his feet. I will make them pay, the gods and their followers alike. I will play their game, and I will win. I will choke the life from them. I will be a god-slayer. You will see.

For the first few years of his enslavement, Susa worked the dry sand for his master, trying to glean a harvest year after brutal year. If there was no yield, all the slaves were whipped. His master was fond of the lash; almost as fond of that cruel tool as he was of young boys. Susa, being handsome and strong, attracted his master’s attention more often than not. He bore the raping in silence, letting it cement his hatred and his resolve.

When he turned fifteen, Susa snuck the sharpened head of a hoe into his master’s bedroom beneath his robes. Distracted by his lust, the master was easy to kill. Susa beat in his head with the head of the hoe, relishing the warm spray of blood and brains. Before the light left the man’s eyes, Susa looked down at him with a sneer.

You are the first, he said. The first in a long line of deaths that will rain upon this desert, to cleanse it of kin-killers and the gods who reward them. Do not worry. Your death, all those deaths that I shall bring, will serve a purpose. The desert will be united, as it would have been but for the bastard gods.

Susa Ottal did not run. He walked from his master’s house, still covered in the gore of his first kill. He walked through the village, a vision of Bubbugu – the demon-bull god of death – and presented himself before the village enforcers.

I killed my master, he declared to them.

Giving no resistance, Susa was arrested and sentenced to the fighting arena to serve as entertainment for however long he should survive. There, he fought other slaves for his evening meals. Susa had never held a weapon before. His family were goat-herders. Even so, he was swift and vicious like a sand snake. For five years he fought. During the time he spent in the dungeons of the arena, he forged an army with promises of freedom and a new age for the slaves and, the day before he turned twenty, he led the Great Slave Revolt.

No slave had ever challenged the authority of the Masters before. Perhaps that was the reason for their victory. Whatever the cause, Susa and his army of slaves were victorious. They not only won the arena, but attacked and won the village. All the slaves were freed and masters became slaves. The new slaves were made to build fortifications around the village, the very first of their kind.

Tall walls of fired yellow clay, thick enough to allow three men to walk abreast, surrounded the village. Many of the bricks came from the arena, which was frenetically torn down upon the slaves’ victory. They built a fort in the centre of the village so strong no besieging army has ever managed to take it.

All the altars and sanctuaries of the gods were destroyed, their idols smashed into dust. Susa, leader of the Great Slave Revolt, forbade the worship of gods of any kind and deemed each man’s fate the property of each man alone. Susa was proclaimed king by his followers.

Word spread, and it was not long until the name Susa was whispered in the ears of every slave, filling them with the fire of hope as they have never been filled before. Other revolts occurred. Some were successful, others not. Those slaves who revolted or escaped, fled to Susa’s free city where they joined the cause. The ranks of King Susa’s army swelled to proportions never seen before or since.

Susa’s thousand-strong army swept through the desert like a sandstorm. They rode from village to village, freeing the slaves, enslaving the masters, and destroying the altars and idols of the gods.

I am the King of the Desert! Susa Ottal proclaimed.

King of the Desert! his followers cried in exultation.

In a campaign that lasted twenty long years, Susa led his armies against master, priest and god alike. When at last he had rode the entire length and breadth of the desert and subjugated all the people therein, he held for himself a festival, where he was crowned King of the Desert, true king at last. At the festival, he pronounced all the gods dead, and forbade their worship. A hundred slaves who had once been masters were beheaded before him, a sacrifice for the King.

Susa also declared that no man of the desert would ever again be a slave, and proclaimed a law that to take a man of the desert and make him a slave was punishable by death. The masters and their once high families, however, remained slaves for eternity thereafter. Justice, he proclaimed, for the crime of their families owning slaves for the eternity that stretch back before this.

Every year, on the anniversary of Susa’s final victory over the desert, a festival in his honour was held, and every year, the men of the desert affirmed their devotion to Susa, the freer of slaves.

He forced many a master’s wife to his bed until one at last gave him a son. The moment of the child’s birth, he had the mother executed. The child was fed on the milk of goats and raised a warrior, filled with the hatred for the dead gods just as his father was.

The year following Susa’s death, that son proclaimed Susa a god. For who else but a god could have battled the other gods and won? Susa, God of the Yellow City, bringer of law.

It was unfortunate that Susa’s law against slavery did not extend to all peoples, for before Susa Ottal’s proclamation against enslaving the men of the desert, none in the West had ever heard of the Ottals.

Come to death, strong men of the stone,

Come to death, for He rides tall and is unending.

Come to death, tall men of the woods,

Come to death, for He rides tall and is a-hunting.

- Baveii Equinox Song

I do not fear, my brothers,

I die in honour and glory,

For though I die, my brothers,

I take twenty souls with me.

- Pamisii War Chant

One

Walking the breadth of the desert was not easy. I should have taken a horse, Guild thought bitterly to himself. Guild wasn’t his name, but his name was dangerous now; a thing that may bring death to him if others learned it. He reflected on his life. He had been a simple farmer, living in the shadow of the Holy Yellow City. His mother’s family owned the well in the village, and used it to irrigate their crop – figs. He had been born wealthy, compared to most. He was also one of twelve children.

His family could have done without the extra mouth to feed and so, the moment he reached manhood, he eschewed marriage and became a member of the Fortu Guild – a hired sword, filled with the promise of adventure and plenty of coin. He rose through the ranks quickly. First he was Tigil. Then Braddard. Then, at length, Guild Master of the Fortu.

Now, he was Guild Master no longer, robbed of his title by a former friend, bent on vengeance; a man who would not hesitate to have any opponents killed. So he called himself Guild.

I should have taken a horse.

On horseback, it was no more than three days between villages, between water and beds and food. On foot, it was well over a week.

A week without water did strange things to a man. Shapes appeared in the shimmering desert heat. Women, translucent and enticing, who danced strange dances appeared frequently to Guild.

After months of walking, visiting village after village and almost dying of thirst each time, he almost believed in ghosts.

Iris, he whispered, tears of regret staining his dusty cheeks as he stumbled across a dune. Iris. Her memory haunted him now more than ever. A slave, no more than a slave, and yet the only woman to have ever captured his heart. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have done more.

Yet what more could he have done? He did not have the money to buy her, and even if he did, there could not have been any guarantee that she would not have died in a month regardless. Guild reached into his pocket and his hand closed around the clay wolf idol that remained there, hidden from the unfriendly eyes of the desert. The clay was ice cold to the touch, despite being alternatively pressed against his body and beaten by the sun.

Guild smiled grimly. It was winter in the tundra. He pulled the wolf out and pressed it to his chest. The cold hurt a little, but it was welcome relief from the unrelenting heat of the desert.

Can you hear me, Winter Wolf? he whispered, directing his thoughts to the idol at his chest. I’m coming. I’m coming.

* * * *

Seraphimé, who most knew as Otsana, shifted uncomfortably in her sleep. She was sweating profusely, though it was the middle of winter.

Otsana? Bran whispered softly. He shook her gently. Otsana? Are you all right?

Seraphimé slept on, groaning a little as she shifted yet again. Bran chewed on his lower lip. He looked at the walls of the onion-shaped pavilion that had become his home. They were starting to lighten, the painted forms of the animals and symbols that decorated them slowly becoming shadows cast by the sun.

Bran had chosen to stay with his wife’s people after the Great Gathering. The majority of his entourage were sent back home to the territory of the Baveii with instructions to relay the situation the people of the tundra faced to his father there. No doubt his father would relay it in court, and a debate would rage as to whether or not the Baveii should involve themselves.

The tribesmen of the Sierran Tundra were now kin. That fact alone should move the Baveii into action. So Bran hoped, at least. That had been the plan since the beginning, and the whole reason for his marriage to Seraphimé in the first place.

Bran placed his cool hand on Seraphimé’s burning skin once more. Wake, Otsana, he whispered. The sun has come. It is day now.

This time, Seraphimé’s eyes fluttered open and she looked around. Her green eyes met Bran’s and she smiled.

Hello, little crow, she said.

Bran smiled in return. His heart still skipped a beat when she looked at him. Are you all right? You are burning to the touch.

I had a dream.

Oh?

I saw a small desert wolf. He was orange, like the sand, and the sun. He was coming, coming to me, in answer to my call.

The desert is where the Ottals live. They are all snakes there.

Perhaps one is a wolf.

Bran chuckled. I think you place too great an import on dreams, Otsana.

Smiling in return, Seraphimé said, When we are sleeping, we travel to the spirit world. There, we are shown things. I think you place too little import on dreams, my crow.

In this, I think we can agree to disagree.

Seraphimé nodded. When are your messengers expected to return?

Not until the council has decided.

Will they decide in our favour, do you think?

I certainly hope so.

Seraphimé stretched, exposing part of her naked body to Bran. He leant forward and kissed Seraphimé on the now exposed crest of her hip. She laughed and turned to face him.

We can be late to breakfast, can’t we? Bran asked, his blue eyes wide and hopeful.

Seraphimé laughed again and traced Bran’s face with her fingers. I don’t think anyone will mind.

* * * *

Your fault.

Go away.

Don’t you growl at me. You might be a god, but I’m her kin. She’ll listen to me before she listens to you.

You’re an annoying hag.

Perhaps.

The Lord of the Hunt, Master of Animals and God of Death turned his gaze to the old woman on the cairn in his clearing. His expression was hostile, twisted by an unexpected jealousy. Hers was perfectly amiable, except the twinkle of mischief that sparkled in her vivid green eyes.

Why are you here?

Because, when you so callously drove her away, she asked me to intervene on her behalf. And so I came here to tell you precisely what I was thinking. God or no, you are an idiot.

The Lord of the Hunt turned away again. The constant howling that had sounded in his private world since he had banished Seraphimé to marry had stopped some months ago. Some part of him yearned to hear it once again, to know that she had not forgotten him.

You should be glad she’s made peace with it. There is no more pain.

I should be, he agreed. Here in the clearing, as it was in the land of the living, it was winter and the Lord of the Hunt wore his armour and helm of the skull of a great deer.

But you are not.

The Lord of the Hunt rolled his broad shoulders in a bid to relieve the tension that had settled there.

I knew it! You love her.

Go. Away.

No. I. Won’t.

Do not mock me, woman!

The old woman sighed. You are just going to have to compromise.

The Lord of the Hunt turned back and looked at the old woman with an expressionless gaze. She had been around him long enough to know that meant he was curious, but did not want to be.

You’ve fashioned her into the Winter Wolf. She is on her way to ascendancy. If all goes according to plan, she shall become the tundra, yes? The goddess who chooses her kings, yes?

The Lord of the Hunt cocked his head in acquiescence.

Then you have no choice but to set her free to make that choice.

The Lord of the Hunt turned away again. I want her.

Yes, well a god cannot be a mortal king as well. She cannot lie with you anymore, not again, not yet.

Not yet?

The kings of the tundra will need her blessings with the return of the sun and the herds. The spring and summer months belong to the mortal kings. But the winters, my Lord; the tundra bears no fruit then.

So I must share her.

If she will have you, the old woman said with a smile.

The thought was enough to drive the Lord of the Hunt wild. I will not!

Fine. Then you must learn to live without her at all. She will not abandon her husband now.

The Lord of the Hunt growled.

Besides, the ancient woman said as she closed her eyes and leant back. I like him.

* * * *

Ur awoke first, carefully dressing and exiting the pavilion so as not to wake Inna, who was still fast asleep. Precious few others were awake. No one had started a cooking fire yet. Ur stretched and yawned, turning sightless eyes towards the birthing sun. He paused for a moment at a lone figure on the horizon. A man, dressed in the skins of a deer and wearing a helm made of a stag skull. He was not an Ayal.

Ur smiled a little and walked towards him, knowing where he was by some power other than sight. Once at his side, Ur turned back and looked at the village of the Osprey Clan. It was not as big as it ought to have been.

You are sad, Ur said after a deep silence.

Yes, the figure replied, his voice deep and silken.

Ur smiled a little. About Otsana. It was not a question.

The figure did not speak for a long while. Yes, he said at last.

Ur remained silent. Two men who love the same woman, he said, shaking his head. This time the figure drew his attention away from the portable village and looked down at the boy at his side.

You see much, for one who has no eyes.

Ur smiled. I have been gifted, he said. When my eyes were taken, I received sight in return.

What else do you see?

I see Otsana as Chooser of Kings. I see her as the Wolf of War. I see her as High Queen. Not just now, but always.

What is she queen of?

That depends on you, King of the Dead.

With those words, Ur smiled serenely and walked back to the village. The Lord of the Hunt watched him go with a frown.

Clever boy that, the old crone said from behind the Lord of the Hunt.

He groaned.

* * * *

I don’t believe it, Algar said bluntly as he paced in front of his brother at dinner. He had been in a meeting all day with his father and a member of the Holy Wetouan Council, the arm of the Holy Yellow City within the Tuan Federation. The yellow robes have declared Holy War on the tundra.

Alam almost dropped his cutlery. "What?"

Algar threw his hands in the air. Convert or kill. They aren’t pleased with the ascension of a heathen war-leader over all the tundra. They consider it an act of treason and have declared war.

There wouldn’t be a heathen war-leader if the damned yellow robes told the desert idiots to stay the hell away.

It’s a culture of slavers, and they aren’t allowed to acquire goods from the desert. Where else were they to range?

Acquire goods. They’re people, not cattle! And that is no justification! What has father said?

What can father say? What the council decrees we must ratify.

We were going to trade with them. Now we must fight them?

So it seems.

That’s just stupid. Alam was infuriated beyond words. They had just last year dispatched a messenger to the Osprey Clan informing them of their desire to trade, and now they were to ride out to slaughter them. Alam’s mind turned to Gabija, the Chieftain of the Osprey Clan. He had promised her friendship, and had hoped for more.

Algar grunted. The word is, the tundra has enlisted the help of our Greyl neighbours.

Which ones?

Our closest ones.

The Baveii?

Yes.

Oh dear.

Hardly surprising though, is it? They share gods still. The Greyls are primitive and yet to convert. And then there was that Otsana girl who married one of the Baveii princes.

How so very convenient.

Political marriages happen all the time.

Alam grunted. If the Baveii have joined the fight in the tundra, we’ll have an enemy on our left flank. That’s a terrifying thought. Drawing the Baveii into a Holy War will draw in the rest of the Greyl tribes, who have long taken offence at strangers telling them how to think and behave. Do you know the size of the potential Greyl fighting force?

Expansive, I’d imagine.

That’s putting it mildly.

But they lack discipline, Alam.

And more than make up for it in courage and zeal.

Algar grunted. This is going to get messy.

Very.

Damn it.

* * * *

Once Tigil and now Guild Master, Mtsusa, head of the Fortu Guild had been busy indeed. He had been twice to the Yellow City to speak with the Ottalan High Council. The council members had, at first, been dismissive of the Guild Master, but were moved by the threat of members of the guild converting to the religion of the tundra.

It was not true, at least as far as the Guild Master knew. However, a perceived threat was the same as a true threat. Great Susa knows, the stories of ghosts and gods in the tundra had made the circuit more than once, and the Guild Master had noticed a growing reluctance on the part of the Guild members to venture to the land of frost again. It irked him. Hired swords were not supposed to be cowards, and he’d be damned if he let a handful of them tarnish the Guild’s reputation. Not while he ruled.

The second visit to the Yellow City proved much more promising. The council, greedy for slaves and sensing an opportunity to expand their influence over a larger territory had decided to back the Guild Master at last.

The Guild Master knew enough about the Holy Council to know that it was new slaves they desired, though they had used the excuse of ghosts and gods, just as he had.

The Ottals were all alike; power-hungry and greedy. It was a good thing, for more righteous men were less easy to manipulate. Mtsusa smiled with smug satisfaction as he rode away from the Yellow City.

Those frozen tundra bastards would pay for all they had done.

The council need only send out word to all the converted peoples under its control, and they would have an army like no other. The tundra would be crushed, and their cursed gods and ghosts with them. The thrill of the thought made the Guild Master lustful. He had taken a Sierran girl as a personal slave and he allowed himself the luxury of anticipation wash over him as he rode back to the Guildhall. She told him she was from the Ice Bear Clan. No ice bear would ever match the ferocity of his ravishing, he promised himself that.

His self-satisfied smile became vicious.

Two

Bran was pleased with the progress that had been made at court. News sent from his father claiming that the Baveii King had fully half the families ready to fight for Seraphimé and her people had Bran dancing in his seat as he told his wife.

The other half will likely capitulate soon.

The delay is worrying, Seraphimé told him.

It will be sorted shortly, if it hasn’t been already.

Sighing, Seraphimé turned her attention back to the spread of maps that were strewn on the table before her. Bran watched her auburn braid fall over her shoulder, which she flicked back in irritation. She looked up at her husband, her bright green eyes capturing him unexpectedly.

This is where they come from then? she asked, pointing to a large yellow splodge that was roughly the shape of a heart.

Yes.

They have religious ties with the Touans, correct?

Yes. But that does not guarantee the Touans will fight for them.

Unless they declare Holy War.

They wouldn’t be stupid enough for that. Holy War will rouse the rest of the Greyls, and that is something no one wants to see.

Seraphimé was not convinced. What if they do?

If I catch wind that they’re even thinking of pulling such a stunt, I’ll immediately petition the rest of the tribes. At least when it comes to that, we Greyls will unite.

Will you?

I hope.

Despite her concern, Seraphimé laughed. Bran flashed her a quick grin before turning his attention back to the maps.

Later that day, when the sun began to sink after only three hours in the sky, Gabija visited. She did not smile her bright smile at either of them when she entered their pavilion and her face was several shades paler than usual.

Gab, Seraphimé greeted with a smile. Her smile faded when she noted Gabija’s trembling. What’s going on?

Sera, Gabija replied. She stumbled on her words and turned to face Bran. Husband of my sister, she greeted formally.

Bran raised his dark brows, his blue eyes growing round. Yes?

Gabija opened her mouth, but there were no words.

Gab, what is it? Seraphimé asked.

Bran, there’s a… there’s someone outside who wishes to speak with you.

Bran looked briefly at his wife, who scowled. Who is it? he asked.

I dare not speak his name, Gabija whispered.

Seraphimé immediately tensed. It took Bran several moments to understand. The colour drained from his face.

Seraphimé turned to him. I’ll go.

No, Bran said, his voice steady and authoritative despite the fear that quickened his pulse. He asked to speak with me.

Bran….

He silenced Seraphimé with a pointed look. She understood. Bran could not be seen to be cowardly when faced with the Lord of the Hunt. He was husband to the god’s favoured warrior, who now ruled a substantial army as Marshal of the Tundra. That made him a high king, of sorts, and should anything happen to Seraphimé, command would fall to him. No one would follow a coward.

Seraphimé nodded. Bran stood, squared his shoulders, and walked to the pavilion entrance and drew the flap back. Beyond the edge of the village, he could see the figure of the god in the snow, waiting.

Wait, Seraphimé called after him. Bran turned, the flap still pulled open. Seraphimé ran to him and kissed him boldly in full view of their guest. There was no act that Seraphimé could have performed that Bran anticipated least and could not be more pleased about. The unexpected kiss told the Lord of the Hunt in no uncertain terms Seraphimé’s choice.

Bran stroked his wife’s face fondly, kissed her briefly again and, fortified by his wife’s wordless declaration, walked to the Lord of the Hunt with square shoulders and bold strides. When at last he stood before the god he did not bow and forced himself to look at the god in the eye, or as much in the eye as the stag skull helm permitted.

Walk with me, the Lord of the Hunt said bluntly. Not waiting for an answer, the god turned and walked away from the camp. Bran looked back and raised a hand to reassure his wife, who remained standing by the pavilion. The camp was long out of sight before the Lord of the Hunt spoke again. He began the conversation with a sigh.

She loves you, he said. His voice was deep, and Bran could detect the slightest hint of an accent.

I believe she loves you also. Bran spoke the words between clenched teeth. He had never before had to fight for a woman’s affections, and though Seraphimé had made her choice many months ago and things had been blissful between them, he never forgot the anguish of loving a woman who loved another as fiercely as Seraphimé loved her patron god.

The Lord of the Hunt turned to Bran and studied him a moment. Bran held the gaze fearlessly, though his heart was pounding frenetically against his ribs. The Lord of the Hunt grunted.

I have been informed by the first king of the Baveii of your blood vow.

Bran grimaced. I’m beginning to rue ever making it.

The Lord of the Hunt smiled slightly. You will release her once this war is won?

Yes.

The Lord of the Hunt nodded and sighed again.

It’ll probably kill me, Bran muttered to himself. The sharp ears of the King of the Dead did not miss the words. Again he studied Bran.

The sensation of having a god look at him, through him was an uncomfortable one. Despite his desire to appear brave, Bran’s brow betrayed his fear in glistening beads. He shifted his weight, but did not look away.

I have a proposition to make, the Master of the Wilds said quietly. Bran scowled at his rival in silence.

Otsana has a grand destiny. She will one day assume the mantle of the tundra in the flesh, and when she dies, her spirit shall become the land. She is the Chooser of Kings, none shall rule in the tundra unless she first permits it.

I’m not sure I am following.

Otsana will, one day, ascend.

Ascend. As in become a goddess?

Yes. And no man shall rule over the tundra unless she chooses it.

How does she choose it?

She lays with him.

Oh.

The Lord of the Hunt laughed. If I could, I would keep her to myself. I find myself… completely at her mercy.

Bran nodded in agreement. Love is a little like that.

As her mortal husband, Crow, you are the first to rule the tundra, the Lord of the Hunt noted with a grunt.

Otsana rules the tundra.

While she lives, yes.

While she…? What exactly are you planning?

The Lord of the Hunt sighed. Otsana cannot truly ascend unless she leaves the mortal realm. He paused. Unless she dies.

Yes, Bran growled. I understood the implication.

The Lord of the Hunt smiled a little. If I could, at her death I would take her away to be my wife.

Queen of the Dead.

But it is not my choice. While she lives, and after she dies, it seems I must be prepared to share her or lose her altogether.

I’m not sharing my wife with you, Bran said flatly.

Not yet.

Feeling his hackles rise, Bran’s fists closed into tight balls and his shoulders bunched together as his body prepared to fight in response to the sharp jealousy that now ripped through it. Not ever.

And when she’s dead?

Bran growled, but knew well that even were she alive, he’d have little recourse. When Seraphimé decided something, there was no contending with her. Her will was made of ice and iron.

Crow, the Lord of the Hunt said quietly, as he removed one glove. Take off your mitt and take my hand.

Bran stared blankly